


Blood, Gore, and Crayola Crayons

by LectorEl



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Gore, Janet is horrifying beyond reason, morally appalling fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-23 04:01:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LectorEl/pseuds/LectorEl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Janet is a serial killer, and believes in mom-and-son bonding time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood, Gore, and Crayola Crayons

_You_ _made me feel loved. Precious, wanted, adored. Like I mattered. You were my **Momma**. How was I to know it was wrong? It was routine. Blood and gore and crayola crayons, corpses and absent minded kisses. ‘Little knife’ in the same breath as ‘darling’. _

Momma shakes him awake, the ever present blood-smell that follows her even stronger than normal.

“Darling boy, do you want to come play?” she asks, curling her nails into Tim’s hair affectionately. Tim nods eagerly. He always wants to play with Momma.

“What’s the game?” Tim asks, reaching up hopefully. Momma chuckles and swept him up, kissing his forehead and nuzzling his cheeks. Tim giggles, clinging to her. He loves it when Momma is like this.

“It’s called ‘vivisection’.” Momma smiles sharply, eyes lit from within.

“Is Daddy playing this time?” Tim asks, curious. Momma always said Daddy would play with them one day, but it hadn’t happened yet.

Momma shakes her head. “Not tonight, little knife. We need him for a while longer.”

Tim nods, and yawns, resting his head on Momma’s shoulder. ” ‘kay. Who are we playing with?”

“I’m not sure yet. Want to help me choose?”

Which is how they end up a few streets over from crime alley, a five minute drive from Momma’s playroom. They’re in Momma’s _other_ car,the one with the sound-proofed back compartment that only unlocks from the front seat. Tim’s sitting in Momma’s lap so he’s tall enough to see out through the mirrored glass.

“What about him?” Tim suggests, pointing to a short man who had just been bodily thrown out of a dingy bar. Momma cocks her head to the side, and hums a single thin note.

At last, she nods. “He’ll do.”

Momma settles Tim on the passenger seat. She gets out of the car. Tim wiggles in his seat, excitement fizzing in his belly. This is where the fun starts. He pears over the dashboard to watch Momma leaning over the man. She looks like she does with Daddy, a little. The way she holds her shoulders, mostly. They talk, Momma occasionally tossing her hair and smiling at him sideways.

It only takes Momma a few minutes to convince the man to get into the back of the car. She locks the door smoothly, fake friendliness shedding off her like rain off glass. Tim twists around in his seat to look through the partition separating the back of the car from the front.

Up close, the man is almost kinda pretty, if you ignore the beer stains covering his clothes and the stubble. Tim sticks out his tongue at him, knowing the man can’t see him through the partition.

“Oh, we’re going to have fun with this one,” Mother says, eyes dancing. Tim grins back at her.

He loves these times with Momma. He squirms with anticipation, waiting impatiently for Momma to drive to her workroom, to force the man inside and finally, finally to come back and get Tim out of the car. Momma settles him in his usual place, at the far counter of Momma’s workroom and picks up her knives. Turning to the man strapped to the table.

Tim watches in fascination for several minutes before finally getting bored. He rummages under the counter and removes a coloring book and a collection of crayons, and happily sets to drawing.

“Pass me the scalpel please, little knife,” Momma asks, holding out her gore slicked hand. Tim nods and hands it to her, handle first. _How does this go again?_ He frowns, and adds a little more red to his drawing.

“Hey, Momma?”

“Yes, darling?” Momma says, turning away from the table.

“Where’s the spleen again?” Tim pokes at his drawing unhappily. Momma wipes her hands on a spare rag and comes over.

“Right here. By the lower intestines,” Momma explains, leaning over Tim’s shoulder and tapping the right spot on his picture. She leaves a bloody finger print behind, but that’s okay. Tim can draw over it.

“Thanks, Momma,” Tim says. Momma chuckles and ruffles his hair, streaking it with blood.

“My pleasure.” Momma smiles at him. One of Momma’s real smiles, thin and a little scary. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”

Tim shakes his head. “Not for ages and ages.”

“Hmm…clearly I’ve been remiss. This calls for drastic measures.” Mama scoops him up, tickling him until he’s giggling breathlessly.

“ _Momma~_ ” Tim shrieks breathlessly. She hugs him tightly, like she only does on nights like this.

“I love you, little knife. My darling boy,” Momma coos, rocking him. “You’re the only good thing I’ve ever made.”

“I love you too, Momma.” Tim lays his head on her shoulder, soaking up the affection she offers. Once the night’s over, everything will go back to normal, Momma restrained and distant, Tim obedient and quiet. But for tonight, Momma loves him without reserve.

***

Two days later, Momma will get on a plane with Daddy, and fly away, and never entirely come back. Tim will grow older, and grow up, till the memories of Momma’s games fades to unreality, dismissed as childhood imaginings. He’s discover Robin’s identity, and he’ll watch another Robin fall. He’ll lose his Momma to a killer in Haiti, and wonder why that seems so fitting.

It will only be years later, that he’ll remember his childish ‘make-believe’ and investigate. That he’ll compare his parents’ travels with unsolved homicide cases around the world, and notice a pattern. Till he’ll go back, to that ordinary building on that ordinary street, and find the workroom with it’s lingering bloodstains and the crayons left carelessly on the far counter.

“Oh Momma,” Tim says softly, horror-stricken, staring at the steel table. “What did we _do_?”


End file.
